


Like Paper

by smaychel



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaychel/pseuds/smaychel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sanji smirks, and traces the word ‘marimo’ on Zoro’s exposed neck with the tip of his thumb."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of a PWP. No real spoilers. Can be seen as a followup to my previous fic "The Soil Also" if you like.

At night they lie together in one hammock, too close and long-limbed, prickly hot against one another, while the others sleep. Zoro reaches up, undoes Sanji’s shirt one slow button at a time, and his knuckles brush the skin beneath. Sanji is above him, so close his hair tickles Zoro’s face. Zoro brushes it back just to watch it fall again, like water.

“Jerk,” he breathes, almost soundlessly, into Sanji’s mouth.

Sanji smirks, and traces the word ‘marimo’ on Zoro’s exposed neck with the tip of his thumb. Zoro finds he needs Sanji’s mouth on him, right now, so he cups the back of Sanji’s neck with one hand and pulls him down, wipes the smirk away with his own mouth.

It’s good, this thing. This whatever it is. Zoro doesn’t need a name for it, it’s enough to know that it’s good. The weight of Sanji above him is, somehow, just _right_ , like the weight of his katana in his hand. Their legs tangle, and it’s familiar. It’s _nakama_. But at the same time it’s a spark in his spine like a god’s lightning strike, when Sanji’s hardness presses against him through their clothes, when he can’t help grinding down against Zoro and his cheeks flush so clearly Zoro can see it in the darkness.

He brushes those cheekbones with his fingertips. _Gentle_ , he tells himself. _Gentle_. Sometimes he thinks he’s forgotten how to be, forgotten how to touch without tearing – hands instead of swords. He imagines blood bursting like blossom from Sanji’s body, how white his skin would be against that endless red.

“Fucking idiot,” Sanji murmurs against Zoro’s lips, as if he knows, and his low pitched voice shivers through Zoro like a sigh. He takes Zoro’s hand from his cheek and guides it down between them. Zoro feels how hot and hard they both are against the tips of his fingers. He grasps at Sanji’s cock through his trousers, shifts slightly so that his legs are spread and Sanji settles between them. “Stop thinking,” Sanji whispers, his hand slipping up under Zoro’s thin white teeshirt, his nails scratching lightly at the solid chest below.

“Easy for you to say, shitty cook.” The words are barely audible against Sanji’s ear as Zoro’s fingers unclasp those smooth, black trousers; dip inside.

The hammock sways under them.

*

“Stop thinking,” Sanji whispers, and by that he means stop fucking brooding, Zoro, before I kick the shit out of you. Jesus.

“Easy for you to say, shitty cook,” Zoro says, and Sanji wants to punch him in frustration, leave a vicious purple bruise splashed on his face, split that lower lip, watch it bleed. He wants to push him up against a wall and _have_ him, break him apart, have him clawing at the fucking ship.

It’s always how it is with them. Half way between fighting and fucking, where the adrenaline makes everything somehow at once harsher and sweeter.

When Zoro’s fingers brush against his cock, though, fighting is pushed from Sanji’s mind. Because _god damn_. Maybe it’s something to do with how clever he is with his swords, but those hands, _fuck_. They close around him, maddeningly light, teasingly slow. He bites his lip.

 _'Fuck'_ , he traces on Zoro’s bared stomach.

He reaches down and squeezes Zoro’s hand tighter around his cock, because he needs _more, harder, now_. “I’m not made of fucking glass,” Sanji grinds out - trying, god, trying to be quiet – and Zoro’s breath rushes from him like sand.

Across the room Luffy stirs in his sleep and mutters something about meat, while Sanji grips Zoro’s hand so hard around his cock that it’s almost painful. “Come on, marimo,” he growls low in Zoro’s ear, tugging harder, faster. “Show me what you can do.”

Zoro exhales, and Sanji doesn’t know if it’s laughter or surprise, but he grins in return and leans down to bite Zoro’s lip, neck, collar bone.

When he rubs at Zoro’s prick, there’s no reaction except for a tension in his shoulders and his mouth. Sanji’s used to it – Zoro’s as silent as the fucking grave in bed, everything clamped down and pent up. Even when he comes, he goes still and just… shivers.

“Some day,” he breathes into the skin beneath Zoro’s ear, “I’m going to make you fucking scream.”

When he looks at Zoro’s face again, his eyes are closed. It’s not much, but fuck it, it’s a reaction. Sanji wants _more_. He’s greedy for it - _hungry_ for it, and if there’s one thing Sanji knows, it’s hunger.

“Going to fuck you,” he continues, breathlessly. “You want that, yeah? Going to make you scream my fucking name.”

And all of a sudden Zoro’s knocking their hands away, pulling Sanji flush against him. _Yes_ , Sanji thinks, tangling his hands in the too-short mess of Zoro’s hair.

Zoro’s arms are all around him, strong, so fucking strong, solid as stone. He grinds up against Sanji, who breathes out laughter and meets him, thrust for thrust.

“Want to be inside you, Zoro,” Sanji says, pressing faster against him. Harder, always harder. Zoro’s knuckles are white where he’s gripping handfuls of Sanji’s shirt, and he’s already shaking. Sanji licks the shell of his ear. “Want to come in you, want you to feel it for fucking _days_ …”

Zoro’s eyes are wild, and his voice is full of something like despair. Their rhythm falters, breaks apart. “Oh god, Sanji, you filthy, fucking…” His eyes close and he tenses in Sanji’s arms, shudders.

“Fucking hell, _yes_ ,” Sanji grits out through barely parted lips as he feels the spreading wetness of Zoro’s come through his trousers. He thrusts into it, and Zoro’s mouth falls open. Sanji feels like he’s on fire, feels like lightning. He does it again. Over and over, until –

“Oh shit, fuck, I’m there,” he gasps and lets his head fall onto Zoro’s shoulder. He’s hardly aware, at first, of the hand in his hair pulling his head back fiercely, holding him there, exposed – of Zoro’s eyes on his face, watching him as he pants out his orgasm as quietly as he fucking well can. He’s not a god damned machine after all, unlike some.

It takes a moment for his head to clear, and when it does he feels Zoro’s fingers let go of his hair, feels them under his still-unbuttoned shirt, stroking his back. Gentle. He realises Zoro’s tracing a word on his skin.

 _Nakama._

“Jesus, Zoro,” Sanji says, still shaking. “Jesus.”

*

Afterwards, their breathing always seems unnaturally loud in the stillness, and Zoro wonders how they managed not to wake anyone. Wonders if any of them know. It’s not that it bothers him, more that there are certain things he likes to keep private, keep apart. Sacred. It’s the same as how he’d kill anyone who touched his katana – even if they were nakama.

For a moment the thought of Sanji’s slender, knife-bitten hands on his swords makes him shiver. Nothing, nothing could ever be so intimate as that, he thinks. Nothing so raw.

Sanji’s eyes are heavy lidded and so very close, his pupils blown in the darkness. Zoro imagines drawing perfect, thin lines on his naked skin with the tips of his blades. He imagines drawing blood, wet as a mouth against white, white skin. _I could cut you like paper_ , he thinks.

“Bastard,” Sanji whispers, half-asleep, but his fingers are twining with Zoro’s as he speaks. They seem to interlock so perfectly. _This is you_ , Zoro breathes, _and this is me_. Swords. Knives. Our fingers calloused and quick. Blunt.


End file.
